


Stay/Go

by ElvenSemi



Category: Original Work
Genre: (sort of), Anal Sex, Bathtub Sex, Collars, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pet Play, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Were-Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 00:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenSemi/pseuds/ElvenSemi
Summary: Jean had sent her out to buy clothes.Somehow, this had not seemed nearly so bizarre and ludicrous when he’d done it, or when she’d agreed to it. Jean had this effect on her. Consistently. She was a rational person who could see through the shit he did… when he was at least a mile away. The closer he was, the stupider she got, she was pretty sure, because somehow when he was directly in front of her, she would get wound around his little finger like the world’s dumbest piece of fucking string.~-~-~Jean, odd immortal who feeds off of the emotions of others, owner of a bookstore that rarely deals in money. Bree, human cursed to turn into a dog at night, library intern and grad student. He's always known exactly how to push her buttons, and she's always hated and loved him for it in equal measure.





	Stay/Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unpretty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unpretty/gifts).



> This story will probably make a lot more sense if you're familiar with my original works ([Table of Contents](http://elvensemi.tumblr.com/original), hasn't been updated in a bit) ([short story compendium](https://alonimi.net/showthread.php?tid=713)). But if you're not, this is as good a place to start as any. Jean Cernunnos belongs to Unpretty, but has been used here (and in all such stories) with permission and significant aid.

Jean had sent her out to buy clothes. 

Somehow, this had not seemed nearly so bizarre and ludicrous when he’d done it, or when she’d agreed to it. Jean had this effect on her. Consistently. She was a rational person who could see through the shit he did… when he was at least a mile away. The closer he was, the stupider she got, she was pretty sure, because somehow when he was directly in front of her, she would get wound around his little finger like the world’s dumbest piece of fucking string. 

Thinking about this was getting her angry, as she walked, and the more she walked, the more she thought about why she was walking a mile through Old Town in the middle of the day, with a bundle of cash she’d promised to spend on _clothing_. 

She’d gone over to Jean’s early. Right as he opened, in fact, which was unusual for her. She almost always stopped by after school or work, in the afternoon. 

She’d just wanted to buy some books! And also maybe Ren had stopped in to see her at the library yesterday and told her that he’d had a bad run of luck with the lady he’d been ruining for the past month. He was in a Mood. Ren had meant it as a warning; she was so good at dealing with Jean because she was a master at navigating his moods. And also because what Ren wanted from him was food, money, and baths, whereas what Bree wanted from him was nebulous and confusing. 

And anyway, maybe she wanted him to feel better. 

She’d put some consideration into her appearance, because she knew he hated the way she dressed. Normally, she’d _love_ to pointedly dress casually, to remind him how much she didn’t care about dressing up for him. But she was trying to make him feel _better_ , right? So she should probably dress up for him. 

But just a bit. 

Because she didn’t want him to think she cared _too much_. 

So, within the bounds of her normal wardrobe, but better than she would if she was just going out for a Friday morning run. 

It was difficult. It took her most of the time between when the sun came up and when Jean’s store opened. She noticed a few extra glances as she was walking... Whatever. It wasn’t like she’d actually dressed up that nice or anything. Just slightly better than the aggressively and pointedly terrible that was her baseline. 

Unfortunately, all this seemed to do was stick her in some kind of horrifying middle zone where he was neither actively sniping at her looks (yet) nor complimenting her legs (yet). In fact, he wasn’t even doing _anything._ He’d barely even _greeted_ her when she came in. 

Had Ren misread his mood? She’d said he was upset. Bree had never known him to sulk quietly. Jean was a melodramatic man in all ways, prone to fits of pique and grand gestures. He went through life, as far as Bree could tell, constantly posing. But he wasn’t doing _anything._ At this rate, she was worried he’d ask her to pay in cash. She hadn’t even _brought_ any! 

Maybe his mood was bad enough that he didn’t even feel like cheering himself up…? Maybe he was still thinking about that woman who’d gotten away, however she’d managed it. Bree had come here with a vague, nebulous plan that her being here would help him feel better. She’d even dressed up--er, well, no, she’d agreed that what she was doing was not dressing up. But she’d come! And it didn’t seem to be doing anything at all. 

Maybe she should… say something…? 

But _what?_

“Um,” she fumbled, having spent far too long browsing his selection for someone who had most of the books in his shop memorized. She’d picked out a terrible romance novel, on purpose, to give him something to make fun of her for. He wasn’t even _commenting._ “You look… nice today?” 

_He fucking looked nice every day, that was like his whole thing, why was she like this._

He glanced up at her, only briefly, from his place at the desk. He looked _bored._ It felt like a knife. 

“Your tongue,” he said finally, looking back down at his records. “Is as clever as ever.” 

Her cheeks flushed slightly, which just went to show how off-balance she was feeling. That was barely even a snipe, compared to the things he normally said to her when he was in “a mood.” She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. 

Maybe Ren _had_ misread his mood. Maybe he just wanted to be alone? But normally he wouldn’t even open the store if that was the case. An open sign was like an invitation for someone to come in and entertain him. 

Maybe he just didn’t want _her_ here. 

Her shifting increased. She may have been rocking from heel to toe. 

“Ren said she stopped by a few days ago,” she added, hunting for something useful to say without blurting out “HEY ARE YOU DEPRESSED, CAN I HELP.” It was proving difficult. 

“Ren says many things,” he replied blandly. She’d never thought she would think of any part of him as bland. Was this his way of telling her to shut up and mind her own business? “Was there anything else you were wanting, or…?” he asked, handing her her book. He didn’t even wrap it or anything. Sometimes he did. She had a small collection of silk scarves from when she’d done something to put him in a particularly good mood. 

“I’m, um, not working today,” she fumbled, as if her state of dress didn’t render this completely obvious. She was wearing a Batman hat for god’s sake. “I thought maybe I could…” Do _not_ say hang out here, _do not fucking do it._ “...Help out?” 

He paused, which was arguably something of a good sign. Maybe he was thinking it over? And then he gave her one of those… awful, up-and-down, slow, appraising looks he did sometimes. She shifted uncomfortably, holding the book in front of her chest like a shield. Did she look that bad? She’d thought this was a good in-between. She hadn’t wanted him to think she’d dressed up on _purpose._

"... And in what way did you feel you could be of use?" he said finally, and her cheeks flushed just a little more. He always said things like that. Making her think _things_ when she’d been starting out totally innocent in her intentions. 

That being said, she couldn’t exactly say she was hoping to cheer him up. 

“Oh, uh, I dunno,” she lied awkwardly, not making eye contact. “I figured I could…” Prove a much-needed distraction. “Help out around the store…? I know you have your own, uh, method of organization…” Boy was _that_ a charitable way to put it. “But I figured you’d have _some_ use for me.” UH. WAIT THAT SOUNDED WEIRD. “As I’m a librarian!” she blurted out quickly. “Some use. For a librarian. In a book shop. Haha, obviously, right?” 

Jean didn't roll his eyes, because such an act was almost certainly beneath him, but he did give off the definite aura of someone rolling the eyes _of their soul._ “If your intent was to dress for the job you want, I cannot say you have succeeded.” 

Bree went a bit rigid, standing up straighter just out of sheer discomfort. “I-it’s just my normal clothes!” she protested, ignoring the fact that this was slightly untrue. Why did him insulting her clothes sting more when she’d been _trying_? She found a bit of indignation, which was a relief. She felt much more comfortable, as a whole, when she was grumpy. “I didn’t realize I needed to dress up to provide free labor.” 

Jean gestured around at their surroundings vaguely, with both hands. “You have been here before, yes?” She didn’t think this was a particularly poignant point, despite the fact the bookshelves were all solid wood, as was the desk. He didn’t have any furniture that wasn’t covered in books. It was hardly the _nicest place she’d ever been._ So long as she counted the upstairs of his house as a different place. 

“I have!” she protested, pouting and curling her fists onto her hips. “And dressed way worse than this!” This had seemed like a better argument in her head. She glanced down. Maybe she was a _little_ underdressed, but… “I don’t have to help out in the front, if you find me soooo offensive.” Although asking him to let her wander about the back of his house, unsupervised, did seem a little much. Even if she had done it before. And lived here for like, two weeks. 

Jean raised a single eyebrow, perfect in his asymmetry. He’d had, like, forever to practice it; she told herself that to feel better when he was unnecessarily hot. “Oh? But you are not dressed to help in the back, either—or maybe you had planned to change?” 

“What do you mean dressed to help in th--” she stopped abruptly, cheeks beginning to flush red again. 

“I think that might be more a favor to you than to me, however, if you are trying to be _magnanimous_ ,” he added, probably just to make _super sure_ she got it. 

“That! Is not what I meant!” she protested, hands leaving her hips to hug the book back to her chest. 

_But if it would cheer him up--_ NO YOU STOP THAT, TRAITOROUS BRAIN. There would be none of that! 

“I just meant! That I could, I don’t know! Wash dishes?” she waved her hands vaguely. “Make _scones?_ ” Her scones were terrible. 

Jean frowned. Bree went a little cold. “Mademoiselle.” She went colder. When had he ever called her that? She was Bree, or Miss Corey, sometimes. “We have this problem where you dislike to be honest with me, and do not tell me what you desire, and then you grow frustrated with me for failing to predict your whims.” 

Th-that wasn’t what was happening! ...Was it? 

“I am not in the mood,” he continued, and she had to agree he looked very much not in the mood. “Tell me why you are here, or go.” 

She caved like a house of cards in an earthquake. “I heard you were upset so I thought I would come and try to cheer you up,” she blurted out all at once, then looked and felt positively horrified for doing so. “Um.” She shifted, super uncomfortable with the sudden-onset honesty. “But I’m terrible at knowing what cheers people up, in general? So I thought I’d just… show up?” This sounded very stupid, when said out loud. 

His frown disappeared instantly, breaking into a smile that showed off shark's teeth of porcelain white. Her stomach did a weird flip-flop, relief and something else flooding her. It said a lot of uncomfortable things about who she had become, that a smile full of teeth like that could ever make her feel relieved. 

"There," he said, seeming to relish in her embarrassed confession. "You see how easy that was? Now we are at the heart of the matter." He gestured for her to come closer, beckoning with two fingers. Unthinking, she stepped forward. "It is a very sweet notion, Miss Corey, but your first problem..." He paused, and gestured again with two fingers, and she stepped forward again, wincing as she half-stumbled into his desk, catching herself with thighs pressed against the wood. Even then, though, she didn't look down, caught in the look in his steadily lightening eyes. "Is that it is not a matter of what you can do for me," he continued. "But a matter of what I may do _to you._ " 

Her mouth went dry all at once. "The second, and more pressing problem," he went on, as if he was totally unaware of her condition. He gestured again with both fingers. She was uncertain how she could possibly get closer. She leaned over the desk nervously as the gesture continued, insistently, not wanting to put her hands down on it. When she was finally far too close to him for her own comfort, he turned to speak the words more directly into her ear. "Is that I would break you." 

Heat flooded her cheeks--and the rest of her, pooling in her stomach. She swallowed, trying to restore moisture to her mouth and failing. Her knees gave a bit of a quake, and she had to put her hands down on the desk to keep from stumbling. 

"O-o-oh." It was kind of a squeak. She cleared her throat. It didn't help. Why was she still bent over his desk? _Why had she not immediately stood back up._ "Th-that. Um. I." Her voice broke. She cleared her throat again, staring at Jean for a moment before managing to pull herself back upright, suddenly trying to look anywhere but at him. 

There had to be a correct thing to say in this situation. 

She couldn't even say correct things in situations where she'd had time to practice in the mirror ahead of time. She didn't stand a chance in hell. She squirmed, book lying forgotten on the desk. "Sorry? Or, um, thanks? For not? Um. That. Uh." 

"You are _most welcome_ ," he said, with more grandeur than even slightly necessary. As if he really was doing her a grand favor by not breaking her in half. Presumably with his dick. That's what she was imagining, anyway. "But it is not your fault you are so terribly... small." She had never been accused of being small once in her entire life, except maybe as a dog. "And delicate." Her eyes widened as her cheeks flushed darker. 

She had _definitely_ never been delicate. She was solid muscle. She had worked very hard, in fact, at being solid muscle. She had broken werewolves' bones. This was not an easy feat for a human. 

But compared to him, maybe-- 

"How _easily_ you bruise," he continued, as if bemoaning the obvious. "It is the most dreadful shame. Surely you have noticed how _gentle_ I must be with you." 

She had noticed nothing of the sort. 

But, thinking about it now. 

In great, vivid detail. 

He was very strong. He could, and had, pick her up as if she weighed nothing, particularly when his eyes were light, as they were now. She'd thought she'd experienced some degree of roughness from him, coming home with bites and bruises that she'd have to use makeup to hide. But he'd also killed an _Alpha werewolf_ for her. That couldn't be done without far more strength than he'd ever subjected her bare ass to. 

She was definitely just standing there, bright red, replaying sex scenes in her head. 

Oh god. 

"I!" she squeaked. "Hadn't, um, noticed," she managed, at a slightly more reasonable tone. "Or, um, hadn't, thought about it, I guess, um." And now she was just imagining him being rougher, nails breaking skin--she wouldn't even want that, would she? but now she was _thinking about it_ \--and what must he feel like doing to her _now_ , that she would be _broken_ , and... "So, uh, that time you--" she choked on the words, brighter red still. "You know, with the, um, cane, that was... gentle?" 

"You are walking, yes?" he asked, lips curling in a grin that was nearly a smirk, slight flash of sharp teeth. "Not that sitting would bring you any great joy, either." 

"I! Am walking, yes, definitely," she agreed. She was regretting wearing long sleeves. It was weirdly warm in here for springtime. "Well! Um. Thanks! For your... restraint." WRONG WORD WRONG WORD WHY HAD SHE PICKED THAT WORD OUT OF ALL OF THEM. AH. "S-so there's nothing I can do, to um, help?" 

"Hmm," he considered, leaning back in his chair and giving her another long, appraising look. This one made her anxious as well, but in a very different way. "Perhaps... if you would like to dress yourself in something quite fine? Something which it would be a dreadful shame to destroy while you wore it?" So not something he would _tear off of her just to see it gone_ , like, say, what she was currently wearing? "I shall restrain myself from any permanent rearranging of your anatomy, regardless, but it is a nice thought." 

How generous of him, given that she already wasn't sure she could feel her legs. 

Was it wrong that she wasn't sure she wanted him to be gentle? Well, obviously, she did, she had no desire to be broken in half by an immortal who was too rough with his toys. And the idea of having to be handled gently was doing weird things to her, for sure. Kind of weirdly similar to the way she'd felt when she saw her book in his vault of gold and silver and wealth. Like she was something priceless. But. 

But... 

"I, I could, if it would help," she volunteered, despite the fact her mind was stuck on clothing being destroyed. The things he'd do to her. The things she couldn't let him do to her, because she was--apparently--small and fragile and his mood was indeed terrible. "I don't, um, have anything, obviously, but--" But when had he ever really wanted her in her own clothes, anyway? 

"What a _lovely_ girl," he purred, and she could have melted on the spot. "Then I can use you after all." It was taking active effort not to melt on the spot, in fact. 

He pulled open a drawer, rummaged through like he was looking for a pen. Then he pulled something out and tossed it at her, casually. She fumbled to catch it as it thumped her in the chest. 

It was, uh. 

Just a stack of cash. Hundreds. Casually bundled together. 

She looked up at him, eyes wide as saucers. 

"Go on, then," he said with a predator's smile. "There's a lovely boutique up on 12th. The Ouistiti Flagorneur, I believe. Just go and get something you would like me to remove from you. Preferably something that does _justice_ to your assets." 

And then the next thing she knew she was six blocks away walking through Old Town in a daze and she'd realized that he'd probably played her. 

And when she'd gotten there, she'd realized he'd definitely played her. He'd sent her here dressed in casual wear and everyone was _staring_ and she wanted to die. He knew she hated places like this! She hadn't imagined anything could be more horrifying than when Jean dressed her up like a doll, but it turned out trying to do it herself, with everyone knowing she didn't belong, was infinitely, infinitely worse. How could he? After she'd gone there just to cheer him up, and tried to dress nicer, and been all honest even though it was mortifying! He wasn't even here to enjoy her suffering, it was totally unnecessary and uncalled for. 

And sure, it was tempting to use his money to buy something nice. Something pretty, something that she could maybe keep afterwards. Something that, despite his cruelty in sending her here, he would indeed want to treat with a gentle hand. Her gaze lingered on lingerie she could suddenly afford. The temptation was intense, to swallow her pride and do exactly as he asked. 

But then she saw the world’s most _horrifyingly ugly pants_ for like $900 and the rest was history. 

Was it fun, walking back in what was surely haute couture fashion but to her eye just looked like garbage? No, especially not in those awful, clunky shoes that Jean would probably hate even more _because_ they were technically heels. But it would be worth it to remind him that she wasn’t just a… a plaything, for him to wind up and send marching. 

It was also worth it for the look on his face when she knocked on his door. His expression was that of someone who’d just opened their front door to a bag of flaming shit. Now it was her turn to sport a devil’s grin. This would teach him not to underestimate her stubbornness in the face of unnecessary assholery. Possibly. 

“No.” Predictably, he went to close the door in her face. She jammed her foot in the corner, much as she had the very first time they met. This time, however, she was wearing clunky-ass shoes so it wouldn’t hurt. 

“You _told_ me to go to the store, Jean,” she said pleasantly, savoring the moment for all it was worth. 

“When I told you to find yourself something you would like me to take off of you, this was not what I meant,” he said, his irritable tone not bothering her now that she'd done it on purpose. That her mind had been repeatedly flickering back to concepts of tearing and breaking, in general, also helped. 

“I went to the store. I bought clothes, expensive clothes. How am I supposed to know, with my peasant tastes, what is and is not worth $5000?” she asked with a wide-eyed blink. She hadn't actually spent that much, but she'd spent enough to make herself feel dizzy if she thought about it. The rest was in her bag. She'd return it, even though he wouldn't care. It was a pride thing. She did not steal from Jean Cernunnos. 

“I can tell when you lie,” he reminded her. 

“I followed your instructions _to the word._ ” 

“Goodbye,” he said blandly, pressing on her foot with his cane until she removed it, wincing. Even in this, he could have hurt her worse. She was hyper aware of that now. 

“Do you _really_ want me hanging out on your front steps in this outfit all day?” she asked, pouting. “Just me, the roses, and any potential customers.” 

"Why do you assume I would be the one humiliated by letting everyone see you like this?” 

“I already walked across town in this, Jean. In these pants, I _walked here._ ” 

“Your fetish for humiliation has grown more bold,” he observed, and her cheeks flushed slightly. 

“I do not have a _fetish!_ ” she said, way too loudly. 

“How many times do I need to remind you that I can taste your lies?” he asked with a sigh, and her blush deepened. 

“This,” she said, gesturing at her outfit. “Is not for a fetish.” This was closer to true. “A fetish which I may or may not even have to begin with,” she added. This was further from true. “This is what happens when you send me across town, alone, to a store that sells $900 jeans.” 

“They _also_ sell _dresses_ ,” he said pointedly. 

“Do you want me to go back and get a dress?” she asked, thinking of a horrible monster of a dress she’d seen there. “A few caught my eye.” 

“No,” he said shortly. “You lost your privileges.” 

She frowned, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. It was probably not as effective as when he did it. “ _Have_ I? And which privileges would those be?” 

“Buying your own clothes privileges,” he suggested. “Wearing those clothes in my home privileges.” She frowned deeply. “Bed privileges,” he added, and she frowned deeper. 

“Hey!” 

“I will let you know when you have earned them back.” 

“How are you going to keep me from _buying my own clothes_?” she grumped, because that was the only one she could really reasonably protest. His house was his, as was his bed. Although she was grumpy about both. 

He scoffed. “With what money?” 

“I have money that’s not y… …….I have money that you _already gave me._ ” 

“You will not be spending that on clothes.” 

He had her there. 

She let out a massive sigh, accepting that she’d spent her goodwill coins on a prank instead of probably really good sex. Although knowing Jean, he’d change his mind the second she got in his house. “Well, I'm not walking home in this. My landlady would have a stroke. Let me in to change.” 

“No.” 

“ _Jeaaaannn,_ ” she whined. She really had no intention of walking home in this. It was ridiculous. 

“I told you. You are not wearing those in my house.” 

“Well, I’m not taking my pants off out here!” she snapped. 

“Then we are at an impasse,” he said flatly, and she hesitated. 

She could tell he wasn’t bluffing, because he basically never was. 

“...What if I ask nicely?” she suggested. She hated asking nicely. But it normally worked. She was pretty sure he was trying to train her to ‘use her words,’ to be honest. 

“No,” he said shortly, and she stomped her foot on the ground. It was very impressive, in those shoes. 

“You are _not being very fun._ ” It was petty, and she knew it. 

“I disagree,” he said, crossing his own arms, looking down at her with that disdainful look she knew he knew she hated. “I am being very gracious by continuing to speak to you, even though it requires that I see this, which is causing me great pain.” Well, at least that part of the plan had worked, then. “I am the picture of kindness and joy. And the longer you stand there, the more likely it is someone will notice.” 

She glared for a moment longer. She had no hope of winning a stubborn-off with Jean Cernunnos. This was not due to a lack of stubborn on her part, but by an _absolutely excessive amount of it_ on his. 

“...If I take them off will you actually let me in or are you just going to close the door in my face.” It seemed like something he might do. 

He lips curled into a smile. It was nice to see. Not for any particular reason, except maybe because she had wanted to cheer him up, at some point. That was all. Although that particular smile had her worried. She recognized it. It normally meant he was thinking something that she wouldn’t like. 

“How about this: for your modesty, you get down here beneath the railing,” he gestured down and to the side. “So you can hide behind the roses. And then you can stay low as you come inside, so no one can see you through the windows. Yes?” 

She considered, eyes narrow, because it seemed far more accommodating then she would have expected from him right after she’d done something _just_ to annoy him. Particularly given his “mood.” 

It _seemed_ pretty reasonable. Obviously the most reasonable thing of all would be him letting her change in his fenced, private backyard--the idea of entering his house with clothes on had suddenly been discarded from the reasonable pile, it seemed--but this was a decent compromise. His rose bushes were tall enough that she could probably hide behind them if she got pretty low to the ground. 

Better than walking home like this, right? Shame about the clothing, but it was unlikely that she’d be nude in his home and not get _something_ for her trouble. 

And he was in a _bad mood_ and she’d _irritated him_ and maybe he’d push the bounds of what _gentle_ meant-- 

Mind made up, she nodded, and jumped over the railing with far more grace than was called for. It was instinct, once vaulting over railings or climbing became involved. Muscle memory always had her parkour-ing. 

Things were a bit more complicated once she was actually squatting behind the rose bushes, though. She frowned down at herself. She hadn’t really been planning on taking these off the normal way. She had been vaguely hoping tearing would be involved. She wasn’t super sure how to manage taking them off while trying to hide behind a rose bush. 

“So, what, do I just leave them down here?” she asked, frowning, starting with the zipper since that seemed the most reasonable starting place. “Because I’ll be honest, I was kind of hoping you’d set them on fire in a fit of pique or something.” 

“We can worry about that later. Lower, dear,” Jean suggested, looking very pleased with the situation from where he stood, leaning against the door frame. 

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to take these off when I’m down this low--urgh.” She shifted a few times, struggling with her jeans, before she gave up and just kneeled in the dirt. It wasn’t like it mattered if the pants got dirty. 

These were a nightmare. How did they even come off? Were all these straps really necessary? 

She managed, with a lot of under-her-breath muttering, to get them down to her knees, at which point she paused. How was she to get them off the rest of her legs? She couldn’t stand and kick them off. If she tried to shimmy them off, she’d get her legs covered in dirt. Jean hated dirty things, particularly in his house. He even made the _homeless girl_ take baths and change before she went much further than the lobby. But they were tight around her knees, and she doubted she could squat like this. And also, she had forgotten the shoes, because normally she wore pants that didn’t care if she was wearing shoes or not. 

Okay so… shoes, first, then she’d work on the pant conundrum. There was a lot of uncomfortable contorting as she tried to twist backwards to get them off while still kneeling. It was not working overly well. This would have been much easier if superhuman tearing had been involved. 

“Later, you will appreciate the practice,” Jean informed her, earning a glare. She didn’t know what he was implying, but was certain it was rude. 

Eventually, she sort of fell sideways, legs curled, to be able to reach the front of her shoes and tear them off. One hand and a thigh were getting kind of dirty, but she could brush that off. It wasn’t too bad. 

Alright. Now. Pants. 

It would be way too embarrassing to roll onto her back to get these fucking things off, but tight jeans were not designed to be removed in these circumstances. Eventually, and with a lot of uncomfortable but muffled grunts, she managed to shimmy them down her knees, inch at a time. Her knees were now also pretty dirty. Goddamnit. 

Panting a little already, just from the sheer discomfort of the contortions, she glared up at Jean. “There. Can I come in now?” 

“All of it,” Jean replied, crossing his arms and looking down at her. “Off.” 

She glanced down at her shirt, then hesitated. “...When you say _all of it_...” 

“I know for a fact you have very good hearing,” he replied, and her cheeks flamed crimson again. UGH! With the dog jokes! 

...Maybe if she just pretended that obviously hats and underwear didn’t count… 

Her shirt was considerably easier to pull off, and she flung it onto the ground with her pants, kneeling as low in the dirt as she could. “Okay, shirt off, yep, just me now, let me in.” 

“I can wait all day,” Jean informed her matter-of-factly. He was still standing in the doorway. 

“ _Jeaaaannnn_ ,” she whined, despite the fact whining had never _once_ worked. “This is just my normal underwear!” 

“Yes,” he said, that one word carrying an entire truckload of disdain. “I sent you to a store with much nicer things, did I not? And yet here we are.” 

“You sent me to a store with $900 jeans,” she countered. “It’s not my fault if you didn’t foresee this _incredibly obvious_ outcome.” 

Honestly. If he’d even slightly been paying attention--and she _knew_ he had been! definitely, no matter how forgetful he could be--he should have been able to see this one coming. When had she ever passed up an opportunity to be a bitch to him? 

“I assumed you would foresee this consequence - or perhaps you mean I should have realized you would enjoy this part?” 

She glared up at him, cheeks burning. It was hard to be indignant from rose bushes. “ _I am enjoying no part of this!_ ” she snapped furiously, struggling to find an easy way to get her bra off that also didn’t look ridiculous from the angle he was viewing her at. 

“Can you guess what you taste like right now~?” he asked, voice playful, almost sing-song. 

She gave up and just pulled her bra off over her head so she could chuck it at him. On a whole, not a wise decision. 

“Oops,” he said flatly as he caught it. “Oh dear, this seems to have torn in two, somehow.” It practically shredded in his hands, as if it were made from tissue paper. “How unfortunate.”

“What!” she yelped, almost standing up to dive for it, as if there was anything to be salvaged. She quickly remembered where she was and ducked back down behind the bushes. “ _Jean!_ ” 

“It is only slightly more trash than it was before,” he informed her, tossing it into some other bushes and brushing his hands off as if to dust off any bra-residue.

“ _Jean, I don’t have any bras here_ ugh, christ, why is this so difficult.” She was trying to remove her underwear so she could get in the door and stop being naked in his bushes. It was proving as difficult as the pants, in some ways. “I cannot believe you, you are such an asshole, _why is it so hard to get these off in this position?!_ ” 

“This is why practice is important,” Jean observed, and she paused to glare back up at him. 

“How many times could you _possibly_ foresee me having to do this?!” 

Jean just smiled, broad and full of fangs. 

“Don’t you give me that look,” she said, flushing, then looking away. Finally, she managed to get her underwear off without having to roll over and flash Jean. “There! Now let me in!” She was still holding her hat on, and somewhat ineffectively trying to cover her chest with one hand. Just in case someone had a good angle on her from one of the other buildings. 

“This will be much faster if you use your hands, you know,” he explained gently, as if she were an idiot. “As much as I know you enjoy being on your knees.” 

“ _You are in the way,_ ” she hissed, cheeks flaming. He was still in the damn doorway! 

Jean gestured down towards his casually spread legs. Not even really spread, just… like. A normal, standing amount. “Not if you are low enough, as we agreed.” 

“Oh my god,” she said through clenched teeth, eyes shut. “Are you _kidding me_.” She didn’t know why she was whispering. There was no one nearby. “You _asshole._ ” 

“If you have changed your mind…” 

“NononoNONO--” 

“You can keep rolling around in the dirt of my garden,” he continued, as if she hadn’t said a thing. “As I am told dogs love to do.” He wasn’t looking at her. He was examining the nails of his ungloved hand. 

If looks could kill, he would not have lived this long. 

“...Is the coast clear,” she managed, through waves of indignation and embarrassment. She was not staying naked in his front yard for one minute longer. 

“Yes~” he said cheerfully, and she bolted up, scrambling onto his threshold. As she did, he snatched her hat off, quick as a whip. She cried out, pausing to stretch for it, still on her knees. Then she remembered where she was, and just dropped back to all fours to scramble between his legs in a desperate rush, collapsing away from the door, panting, arms automatically up to cover the dog ears peeking out of her hair. Despite the number of times Jean had seen them at this point, it was just instinct. 

“You _asshole!_ ” she yelled, whole body flushed. “Always the fucking _hat_ , I _hate_ you, you are such a _dick_ \--No!” she yelped as she saw him chuck it out the open door, before shutting it. 

“There,” he said, with relish. “All better.” He eyed her where she sat, half-collapsed on the ground. “Well. Mostly.” He stepped forward, and then over her. She needed to stand up, immediately. 

“Jean, no, you _know_ I need tha--ahh!” 

Jean had stepped over her, yes, but he hadn’t kept walking, as she’d expected. He’d grabbed a handful of her disorganized curls with his gloved hand. He jerked, and she let out another cry, shock and pain and something very much neither shock or pain. She stared up at him, craning her neck, briefly speechless. There was a look in his eyes that she didn’t quite recognize. 

Oh. 

Right. 

Bad mood. 

“And what it is,” he said, voice a bit harder than she was used to hearing. “You suppose we do with filthy bitches who have gone and covered themselves in trash and dirt? Hm?” He pulled on her hair again, briefly lifting her ass off the ground before letting her thump back down, hand still painfully twisted into her hair. “We certainly don’t let them on the bed in this state.” 

She stared up at him, briefly dumbfounded. Was it possible to get whiplash from switching moods too fast? Could one pass out from all the blood rushing from their head, down between their legs? It certainly felt like she was short-circuiting. She was dirty, she was aware, thanks to the way she’d been rolling around in his bushes like… 

She swallowed, hard. She could see the corner of teeth in his disdainful scowl, and she was suddenly remembering, all at once, what he’d been saying to her before sending her off to buy clothes. 

“Um,” she squeaked. “W. We. Uh. Bath?” 

“It _speaks!_ ” he said, voice dripping sarcastic amazement. “It learns! Will wonders never cease.” 

Hand still in her hair, he began to walk, steps quick and purposeful. She tried to stand and immediately failed as he yanked her along, instead hitting the ground ass-first and then getting dragged along as she yelped. She stumbled, repeatedly, kicking along the ground to try and stand or at least take some of the pressure off of her hair. It didn’t appear to be helping. She probably just looked like an idiot, flailing along the ground as he dragged her into the first floor bathroom. 

Bree had used this before, when she’d first been staying here. These days, when she got to bathe at Jean’s house, it was normally in his larger-than-life upstairs bathroom. The bathtub here was far from small, however. He tossed her into a corner--quite literally _tossed_ her, by her hair. She hit the wall with a thud. No real harm, it hadn’t really even hurt, but. He had never _thrown_ her before, or dragged her like that. Her heart was pounding in her throat, and she was a little worried she would be leaving a trail that was very much not just dirt if he kept this up. 

_Gentle with her_ , he’d said. 

Apparently so. 

He was turning on the water, the tub filling up fast as he spun the knob all the way. 

Jean had bathed her before. The word gentle was bouncing in her head thanks to what he'd said, but her baths with him were something she would have applied that adjective to all on her own. That was why she tolerated it--actively sought it out, if she was being honest--despite her embarrassment. Memories of how he’d wash her legs, of dexterous fingers in curls that she could never seem to tame on her own. All of the things that evoked the most confusing feelings, all tied up with Jean and baths. Sweet nothings and that gentle miracle of hands that would touch her. Not even for sex, just because, ostensibly, he wanted to. 

And now, instead of that, he was dragging her bodily over the edge of the tub into six inches of water in a tub still filling. 

“What a _filthy_ creature you have let yourself become,” he said, the distaste in his voice doing funny things to her insides. “And this despite how hard I have worked to teach you better.” 

The water was _cold as ice_. 

She yet out a pained yelp as he dragged her into it, scrambling against the sides of the tub. “Fuck! Turn on the hot water!” she exclaimed, the cold feeling deadly against her heated skin. He did no such thing, instead tearing off his glove and rolling up his sleeves as she situated herself on her knees in the tub, trying to have as little of herself as possible in the freezing water. “Fuck!” she swore again. “It’s not like you can’t afford heat!” 

This was when he gripped her hair again, claws and all, and shoved her entire head forcibly into the water, directly under the stream of icy water. 

She let out a terrified blurble of purest distress, entire body flailing, shoving wildly against the tub, against his grip. She splashed and kicked wildly, muscles straining with every ounce of strength that she’d been training into them for decades. 

She might as well have been trying to lift an entire building. 

She came out of the water when he pulled her, gasping, out of it. 

“And _now_ look what a mess you’re making,” he said, sounding exasperated. It was true; she had splashed quite a lot. His white shirt was soaked through the front. She had never made a mess of _him_ before, and the sight of it was enough to make her briefly stop struggling, eyes going wide. 

“Y-you dunked my head in ice water!” she defended herself. “My whole head!” 

“And yet you have not learned. Shall we try again?” 

“Wh--nonono waitwaitwait--” Idiotically, she protested the whole way into the water, rather than holding her breath. This time, however, she held still, limbs shaking, whole body tense as the string on a violin just before it snapped. He pulled her back up and she gasped in air but sat still, shaking violently but otherwise docile. She couldn’t help the shaking; this water was freezing. 

It reminded her of how she tended to shake when he bathed her as a dog. 

She _did not_ need this thought. 

“Much better,” Jean said, and she relaxed the slightest bit. “Look how much cleaner you are already.” 

She hadn’t been that dirty in the first place, she thought. If she hadn’t had to crawl inside as fast as possible, she could have just brushed it off. 

“C-c-can--” her voice was rattling, a testament to how fucking cold she was. “Can I h-have hot water n-now?” 

He gave her a vaguely bored look. 

“W-what i-if I ask nice?” she added, immediately rushing to her first line of Jean-defense. 

He considered her briefly, then smiled. “...Beg.” 

She suspected she might be blushing, but she couldn’t really feel any heat from it. “...P-please, Jean, t-turn on the h-hot water? I-I’m sorry I got dirty.” 

He tsked gently, shaking his head a bit. “That is not how a bitch begs, is it?” 

Somehow, the flood of what would be warmth that this filled her with only served to make her feel the chill of the water more keenly. Cheeks burning, she tried to force out a little whimper. Making dog noises when she was a human was a special layer of hell, honestly. 

“On your knees,” he instructed, pulling her hair a bit to encourage her into the right position. “Show me you know how to beg properly.” 

Mind racing to find the exact thing he was after, she turned towards him in the bath, kneeling. He stood up, hand briefly leaving her hair, and she was once again reminded of the height she came to when kneeling in front of him, thanks to his impressively long legs. She gazed up at him, and felt like maybe dying a little bit, but curled her arms and hands in front of her in the best classic “dog begging” pose she could manage. 

A hand went to his belt, lazily unclasping it, and she quickly realized where this was heading. 

The water was still freezing and still running ice cold, filling the tub. She cared slightly less. 

She let her mouth fall open, sticking her tongue out slightly like she imagined a dog might, if being offered a treat. 

If god struck her down right now, it would be a mercy killing. 

But she really hoped he didn’t, because now Jean was pulling his cock out and MMFFFF-- 

He shoved directly into the back of her throat, and at once she was trying not to choke and gag, and failing. Her eyes began watering almost immediately, but he just gripped her hair and pulled her forward onto him. 

She had no hope of taking him all the way to the base. He knew that, he had to know that. But he seemed to be determined to try anyway. He shifted close, putting one knee--his bad leg; she knew she didn’t have to keep an eye on it in situations like this, but it was instinct--up onto the edge of the bathtub. His hand on the back of her head, he pushed her deeper. She struggled, trying not to choke, not to send saliva into her lungs. Her throat was spasming wildly, she couldn’t get it under control. 

“Keep begging,” Jean ordered, voice perfectly even, almost matter-of-fact. Like he didn’t have half his cock in her throat. 

Her hands had gone to his hips, struggling automatically. It was useless; if he wanted to impale her on his cock, there was no force in the world that could stop him. It was kindness, really, that kept him hurting her just enough. Not breaking her. 

Gentle. 

She brought them back in front of her, begging position once again, looking up at him as best she could. Relishing the way he was looking _down_ at her. 

He pulled his cock out just enough, just out of her throat, and she whimpered and whined around his cock, hoping it counted as begging, even as she desperately tried to suck in air through her nose before, inevitably, he shoved it back in. 

The hand not tangled in her hair, gripping near the back of her head, went to her ears. Sinfully gentle compared to the way he was choking her, making her whimper around his cock. Soft and heavenly, sending jolts of pure pleasure down her spine. Her throat relaxed even more, automatically, her struggles beginning to still. He thrust even deeper, taking advantage, but her body had lost the desire to fight anything, even a huge shaft stretching her throat open. 

“See what a good bitch you can be?” he praised, and the fight just melted out of her. She would probably never be able to get this much cock down her throat again, or maybe she would, maybe he’d make her learn to take it. Maybe she was a work in progress, and one day she’d kiss his pelvis with his cock all down her throat, a perfect fit. 

He was distracted, come to think of it. If he was anywhere near as distracted as she was… how could he not be, with his cock down her throat? And she’d earned this, hadn’t she? One hand on his hips, the other reached behind her, to where the spout was pouring out ice water, halfway up her stomach now. 

“Ah-ah-ah,” he said, and flicked a fingernail against one of her ears. Her whole body spasmed, a wild flail from her head to her feet. It was a testament to his bravery; her jaw had very nearly clenched. But some instincts ran deep, and the instinct not to bite him had been ingrained very deep indeed. “I know you can be a good girl,” he chided. “Or maybe you prefer to be bad? But bad pets get no treats.” 

He pulled out, all of the way out, and she gasped desperately for air, trying not to cough. It would only make her throat more raw. And air was good, and this should have been a good thing, but her mouth felt empty, her _throat_ felt empty, and he was _right there._ She leaned forward, mouth open but he jerked back on her hair again. The noise she made was barely human, she flushed at the sound of it. She was a person, damnit, she knew she was. But somewhere in a life of switching back and forth, some wires had been crossed, or maybe she’d just always been this way, and right now she wanted to be a bitch more than she wanted to be a person. 

It was fine, with Jean. There was nothing she could do to make him respect her, anyway. So might as well open her mouth and stick out her tongue and sit like a good girl. 

He smiled, all teeth, and ran soft fingers over her ears, twisting gently. Her moan echoed against porcelain, and right in the middle of it, he shoved his cock back in, muffling her, making her moan around him. “There she is,” he purred. “My good girl who knows what her mouth is for.” 

And she was lost, numb from the waist down, hands perched on the side of the tub, throat full of cock. Hands in her hair and fingertips taunting the furry ears on top of her head and her face so hot and the rest of her so cold. And she didn’t care how long he made her sit there in frigid water, throat cramping, legs all painful pins and needles. Because it felt like her mouth was made for his cock, and she could swear she saw affection in the way ice-blue eyes gazed down at her. 

She whined when he pulled out again; _she’d been good_. But he yanked her hair, pulling her head back, and came on her face, marking her, making a mess of her, dripping into her still-open mouth. He pushed into her mouth one last time, just to the back of her throat, as if to make her swallow, or clean him. She did both, either way. Cum never tasted good, she was certain, but she was hot everywhere she wasn’t cold, and she’d beg for it if he asked her to. 

“Dirty once again,” he said with the lightest smirk, and that was the only warning she had before he was shoving her head back under the water, like a shock, like a slap in the face, so horribly cold after the heat of his dick. She screamed into it, bubbles streaming out of her mouth, and he pulled her up again. “Not quite,” he announced, and back down she went. This time, she had the foresight to rub at her face, washing his cum off of her, so that when he pulled her back up, her face was clean. 

She was shaking. She wasn’t sure she had ever been this cold. She was about to beg him for warm water again, for anything, when he reached past her and pulled the stopper from the tub. Freezing water, dirt, and semen rushed down the drain, leaving her shaking even more violently, pain sparking across her body as feeling rushed to return to frozen areas. 

Jean dropped a huge, fluffy white towel onto her, and then began drying her, aggressively. A towel dry wasn’t much good for her hair. She didn’t particularly care. He’d take care of it later, if he wanted to. She stayed still, and shivered. 

When he was done, he wrapped the towel around her. She went to stand on limbs that hadn’t regained all of their feeling yet, but he swept her up, hands under her arms. Right into the air, like she weighed nothing, and then over his shoulder. No inconvenience to him, no sign of his bad leg when he was this full of her. 

She loved this; she always did. No one ever _picked her up._ Who could? She wasn’t small, and she wasn’t dainty. But to him, she might as well have been a down pillow. Arm around her waist, he carried her out of the bathroom and up the stairs. She clung to the back of his shirt, feeling daring enough to let still-shaking fingers trail ever so slightly through his hair. 

She wanted to comb it. She had for a long time, actually, but she never voiced it, because-- 

_”We are not all so lucky as to have someone to brush us, are we? I would suggest your whore mother – if she is, as you say, available for hire – but I do not think that I would trust such cheap hands with such a fine thing.”_

\--there were some vestiges of her pride that even Jean could not tame. 

Little things, little secrets. He could taste her feelings, but he couldn’t hear her thoughts. As he said, he could only guess at her whims. She kept small things for herself, even now. She had to. 

She had hoped he was taking her to his room. To his bed, with warm blankets, because she was still so cold, and wanted desperately to be warm. Instead, he took her into the office. She could tell, even facing backwards, because she knew the layout of his house embarrassingly well. 

“J-jean?” Her voice was still shaking with the cold, teeth threatening to chatter. “W-why are we in the office?” 

“Because,” he said, with relish, heading towards his desk. “It is where I keep _this._ ” 

She twisted herself, craning her neck, fighting to see what he was fetching. A box? A chest? It was hard to see. 

He dropped her down onto the floor, directly, so that she would know he wanted her on hands and knees. 

What he had in his hands was indeed a box, a fancy wooden one, and inside… 

A collar. 

Other things, too, all matching in dark brown leather with glorious gold accents that were almost certainly real gold. A little ring to attach a leash that matched. Matching cuffs, and… w-was… that a smaller version of the same collar? 

Her heart seized, twisting in her chest. 

A collar for a woman and a collar for a dog. That matched. He’d gotten this for her. 

She was still struggling to take it in, to absorb the implications, when he straddled her back, startling her. Then she felt leather around her neck and she couldn’t breathe, not because it was tight. It wasn’t. But because this sensation was not one she knew what to do with. 

The inside of the collar was covered in soft fur, warm and delicate against her neck. 

“Look how pretty you are now~” Jean purred from behind her. She ran a finger over the collar, still awe-struck. 

“Y… yeah…” she muttered, unable to really say anything else. She wanted a mirror. How fine must she look? 

How often could she wear it? 

Still behind her, he shifted back so he could pull her onto her knees. His chest was sinfully warm against her back. She leaned back against him, luxuriating in him for a moment. He smelled so wonderful, and this was the setting she loved him in, this office. He was fastening the cuffs around her wrists. She let him, placidly, moving where he needed her. 

“Does my good girl want to go to the bedroom now?” he murmured against her hair. 

“Yes, please,” she replied, still in a daze, as he hooked the leash to her collar. 

He stood, and she did too. She couldn’t say why, exactly. He offered no protest to the action, merely led her out of the office on a short lead. Perhaps it was a peculiar thing to think, but she was on two legs, because she wasn’t a dog on a leash, she was a _woman_ on a leash. 

There was no point in trying to make sense of her impulses when she was like this. She was learning to just roll with them, and then sort it all out later. 

Jean tugged every time she fell a little too far behind, jerking her neck. She fell behind on purpose. 

“And what would you like once we get there?” he asked, and she thought it over as they approached his bedroom door. It was a short walk to his bedroom. She wished it was longer, despite the cold. 

“U-u-um, well, could we, uh.” No matter how wrapped up in her own head she was, she was always terrible at talking. Even when she wanted something. “Do… something by the fireplace?” she suggested hesitantly, stalling for having to say any specifics. 

“Well, _obviously_ ,” Jean said with an easy laugh. Like bells in her chest. “You have yet to earn back bed privileges.” 

He pulled her into the room and closed the door--no reason, really, it wasn’t like there was a need for privacy, but it felt more intimate nonetheless--but stopped there, letting her stand and shiver. He smiled, pointedly. 

He was waiting for her to answer his question. 

She knew what she wanted. Asking for it was another thing altogether. What if he _laughed_ at her? 

He laughed at her literally all the time. She hated it, but it was nothing if not a constant. She took a deep breath and went for it. 

“U-um, I still feel... bad, about the, um... clothing? S-so.” She did not go for it with any great speed or dedication. “Um, you could, that is, I mean, if you wanted to, uh, it might be appropriate, um, you could…” _Come on, come on, come on!_ “Spank me?” she squeaked out. 

He knew this about her. He’d known this about her for a long time. It was one of the first little peculiarities of hers he’d learned, in fact. He enjoyed bringing it up at inopportune times. And yet she could still barely admit it to his face. 

“What an excellent idea!” he agreed, and she nearly breathed an audible sigh of relief. He pointed to the floor, the soft rug in front of the fireplace. Which was not on, but hopefully would be shortly. “Face on the floor, then.” 

Well, he hadn’t laughed, that was good. But now she had to, uh, do that. Her cheeks flamed, her legs locking up and refusing to move. Jean gave a little pull on the leash, and she moved forward jerkily, towards the fire. Okay. She could do this. It was just… bending over. Sort of. She managed to kneel onto the carpet. Then, a few seconds later, managed to get on her hand and knees. 

This should not have seemed so difficult, compared to choking on dick and being lightly drowned recreationally. 

She managed to lower her face onto the ground, turned away from where Jean stood, because she didn’t want to look at him right now, didn’t want him to see her face, the way her eyes clenched shut. 

Jean did not immediately get down beside or behind her. She heard a rustling sound… clothes? Some footsteps, quiet, imprecise. Her ears perked up towards the sound, trying to track him across the room. Over by the dresser. What was he doing by the dresser? Oh god, what if he’d _bought something else_ , she’d thought she was signing up for bare-hand spanking but there was literally no guarantee of that. And he was in a mood, probably still, no one could fellate a bad mood out of Jean Cernunnos. He threw fits the way suns exploded, grand and horrible and with lots of collateral damage. 

She wasn’t hearing any more footsteps or rustling. Her mind still had him by the dresser. Which was why it was quite the surprise when a smack, brutally hard, connected with her ass. As startled as anything, she yelped and automatically leapt forward, for her neck to be jerked painfully, choking her. Right. Collar. Leash. 

She wheezed a bit, automatically backing up to where she was supposed to be. She had no clue when Jean had gotten that close to her; it was ridiculous for a man that large to move that quietly. She hadn’t even noticed him gripping the end of her leash. She certainly hadn’t noticed him pulling on leather gloves, though she wasn’t surprised once she registered the feel of leather against her skin. “Bare hands _if you’re good_ ,” he’d said once, and he’d very much kept to that. It was fortunate she enjoyed leather so much, because--as had been established--she was very rarely good. 

“And what do you say,” Jean said, voice cheerful. “When someone is kind enough to teach you a lesson?” 

Her heart leapt into her throat, choking her as she tried to force out her reply. “Th-thank you,” she croaked. “...Sir.” She added it a little grudgingly, despite the fact no one had asked her to. 

His hand cracked against her ass again, and she cried out, but once again the one was all she got. “I will tell you when you can stop thanking me,” he informed her. 

“Thank you!” she yelped out, and he struck her again. It was brutal, how hard he was hitting her, but her mind was on his words about how easy it was to slip and break her. This was nothing, compared to what he could do. Each ‘thank you’ she whimpered was more gratitude for that than anything else. 

Smack! 

Thank you for letting me back in. 

Smack! 

Thank you for not drowning me in the tub. 

Smack! 

Thank you for the collar. 

Smack! 

Thank you for not _breaking me in half._

Her legs were shaking and she was a mass of pain, ass throbbing. The were tears streaming down her cheeks, though she had no real awareness of having started crying. 

“Tell me what you are,” Jean said, snapping her out of her fugue, another ‘thank you’ dying on her lips. She could hear the smile on his lips, the way it shaped his words. 

“I… I… I’m a bitch!” she blurted out, and she was rewarded with another sharp slap. 

“Whose bitch are you?” he asked. 

“Yours!” The word leapt from her throat without so much as asking her first. “I’m your bitch, Jean!” Oh god, oh god, that sounded so good. She wanted to die. She wanted to do this forever. Her fingers dug into the carpet, and the noise she made when he hit her again was nearly orgasmic. But he wasn’t done yet. 

“And what are you good for?” 

“B-being fucked,” she spat out, cheeks flaming. The next strike came lower, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever wanted something _in her_ as badly as she did now. But this was what he did, this was the effect he had. She would be fine for weeks and then she’d come here and then suddenly she was calling herself his bitch and begging, and then she’d leave and be _fine again_. 

But he landed another blow on her ass and pulled her leash at the same time, pulling her head off the ground, arching her back, and she didn’t really care if she’d regret this later. 

“And do you like it?” 

“Y-yes!” she cried out, half out of her mind and willing to be driven the rest of the way out. “I love it! I love it w-when you fuck me, Jean!” 

This time she was aware of him moving, aware of him shifting behind her, closer, and oh god-- 

“Tell me where the pretty little bitch wants a cock stuffed~~” he purred, and she wanted to push back against him, but his hand was on her ass and she couldn’t go anywhere he didn’t want her to. 

She had her personal preference in answers to that question. But she also knew Jean’s preference, she’d been around long enough to figure _that_ out, at least. So, when she begged, it was “P-please fuck my ass, Jean, f-fuck me like a bitch, please!” Because what she needed right then was to be good, to be right, to be wanted and needed and _fucked_. 

He rammed straight into her dripping cunt, the full length of him, and her scream shook the rafters. Despite all the lubrication, taking Jean was never easy, and the only foreplay she’d had were blows to the ass. Hardly stretching activities. 

“Keep begging, just like that,” he instructed her, and as soon as she could form words again they were falling unbidden from her lips in a breathless chain. 

“Jean, oh god, ah, p-please fuck my ass,” she begged, despite the fact he felt marvelous inside her and she just wanted him to keep fucking her like that, until the only thing in the world was the sensation of his hips against hers. “Please, make me scream.” She was hunting for something evocative, something honest, something, anything, that would be what he wanted to hear, from a woman who had never once managed to say the right thing. “F-fuck the mean _bitch_ out of me, fuck me until I’m just _your_ bitch, please!” 

“What a filthy girl you are,” Jean said, with obvious relish, grinding his hips against her. “What kind of girl asks for something like that~?” 

That was a fair question, and maybe there was something very wrong with her. Her cheeks burned with shame, and she wanted to just _stop talking_ , but he’d told her to beg and she knew he was enjoying himself. And she wanted him to enjoy it, enjoy _her_ , even just for the moment. Wanted to flush away all thoughts of that woman who’d escaped by reminding him that she was still trapped. 

“J-jean, please, oh fuck, ah, I t-tried to wash the filth off, b-but--” Maybe that was just her, maybe she was just filthy, maybe she could be allowed to be that, and maybe it didn’t have to be all bad. Maybe she was wrong, maybe there was something wrong _with_ her, that she liked any part of this, but maybe that could just. Not matter. “Jean, _please, I need it._ ” 

His entry into her ass was a lot gentler than his first brutal thrust had been. It had to be, or he’d tear something, no matter how wet he was with her arousal. She was only human. 

She whimpered, the pain hitting her like a wall. It was like being impaled on a phone pole, every time, and every time she wondered why she did this. The answer to that being a sound “because she enjoyed it,” but she also enjoyed being spanked and dragged around on a leash, so really, that only suggested that she was a terrible judge of what was and was not an enjoyable sensation. 

She tried, struggled, and failed not to clench down around him. It only made the pain worse, every single time. 

“Are you going to take it like a good little bitch?” Jean’s hands were curling around her hips, grip harder than it needed to be, digging leather-clad fingers into her skin. The leather of the leash pressed an indent into her ass, the grip he had on it occasionally jerking the collar around her neck as he began to thrust, pushing more of his cock in each time he pulled out. 

“AH oh god, yes Jean, fUCK oh my god, y-yes, fuck, I-I'll be a good bitch, th-this is what I'm good for, ahh~” She was barely aware of what she was saying as he pushed in deeper, and she knew how much it would hurt but she just wanted all of him in her, pushing and pulling her apart. 

“And what do you say when you get to be useful?” Jean asked, then punctuated the question with another smack. She jumped, pulling forward and then getting jerked back by the collar, and that was it, her ass thumped against his hips; she’d pushed herself back that last inch, and she was so full she thought she might explode. 

She screamed, and it might have been his name, but it was incoherent if it was. “ _Thank you!_ ” was the first thing that tore from her throat, at the end of the scream. 

Jean pulled her head back just by yanking on the leash, and she felt him lean over her, body over hers, so much _larger_ even though she was _anything but small_. Every place his body touched hers was electric, she always craved more, always wanted to touch him because _people didn’t touch her_ and he was so warm against her frigid skin. 

One hand was still pulling on the leash, a constant pressure against her neck, pulling her back onto his cock over and over. The other buried into her hair, sought out the furry edges of her ears, rubbed the bases _just right_ and were there even _words_ for the noises she was making? Ridiculous little sounds, groans and low whines and embarrassing squeaks when his cock slammed deep inside her, too deep, but she was taking it all anyway, because that was what she did, what she _could_ do. 

And she wanted him to tear her apart, wanted him to shred her, wanted him to put her back together again, and oh god, she was saying this out _loud_ , like the filter between her brain and mouth had been destroyed, filth spilling out between her lips between groans, desperate begging for more, harder. To hurt her, to ruin her, to treasure her. To savor her pain like a fine wine, to luxuriate in her pleasure and her tears and the burning deep in her chest that she liked to pretend didn’t mean a thing. 

He’d barely fucked her pussy and he’d never touched her clit, but she came screaming his name, his hand in her hair driving her mad and his dick in her ass so agonizingly pleasurable that she couldn’t believe this was his idea of gentle. 

And he just kept going. Driving into her again and again, a steady, constant piston, jerking at her collar and playing with her ears, encouraging her endless stream of begging with praise and scorn in turn. Telling her she was filthy, telling her she was beautiful, until she believed she was both. 

He wasn’t stopping, wasn’t coming, and she needed it, needed him to come in her, started begging for it. “Jean, oh god, f-fuck, please, come in my ass, please--fuck fuck--please--” 

“You like specificity, do you not? Be specific about what you want. Be precise.” 

And she tried, god, she tried, it was so hard when he was pulling her apart at the seams. 

“"Fucking hell, Jean, oh god, I w--aah!--I want you come, I want to satisfy you.” She needed it, needed him to be satisfied, needed this to be enough, needed something about her to be enough for _someone_. 

“Oh god, please, I need it, come in my ass and tell me I'm a good girl, please, please.” She needed that satisfaction, a job well done, even if that job was being a distraction. Needed him to be happier at the end of the day than he would have been if she’d taken Ren’s obvious advice and stayed far away. And at the end of it all, desperately wanted to hear it from him, wanted to hear him say he appreciated her coming here, and if she couldn’t have that then she wanted him to stain her inside with the closest thing to gratitude she could get. 

But he didn’t come, he kept going, pulling her leash harder and slipping his hand around in front of her to slip fingers into her dripping cunt. At some point he’d taken his gloves off, and she luxuriated in the feel of bare skin against hers even as she came again, his name the last coherent word she managed to make. He told her to beg, but all she could do was cry out, single syllable words repeated in an endless litany: god, please, fuck, please, Jean, _please._

The leash got shorter, he was wrapping it around his forearm, pulling her back until her back was flush against him, bouncing her up and down on his cock by the hand inside of her. She laid back against him, twitching with every thrust. She couldn’t speak anymore, couldn’t _think_ , her whole world was just _sensation_ , agonizing pleasure and a burning need she couldn’t kill, that just grew and grew until it consumed her. 

She knew she’d won when he stilled, when his arm jerked, almost uncontrolled but not quite, choking her the hardest he had that day. Not breaking her, but maybe coming a little closer than intended. And she loved it, because while she needed his control, the thought that she could fray it, just a little, was sweetest ambrosia. 

“What a good girl,” he murmured against her hair, come dripping out of her ass around him. “And what do you say?” 

“Th-thank you, Jean.” She purred it, sighed his name like a prayer. “Thank you.” Because her mind wasn’t screaming, and she didn’t feel awkward or embarrassed or out of place or wrong or like she should never have existed in the first place, not right then. She was the quiet ocean after a storm, no waves in her chest, because she knew exactly what she was for when she was here. 

“Can anyone else fuck you like me?” he asked, pressing the words against her ear. She could feel his lips on the edge of her skin, the teeth just behind them. 

“No,” she sighed, leaning back against him, wrapping her arms back around his shoulders and neck just to bask in the feel of him. “You’re the best in the whole world.” She didn’t have a lot of comparison to be making that statement, but she felt it with fullest confidence. 

“What a good, good girl you are,” he praised, and she glowed with it. She had never once been good before she met Jean, and she never would be again after she left, but the interim was nice. He pet her ears and her hair and kissed the side of her neck as he lifted her off of him. Her groan was half a protest, half the leftovers of pain and pleasure he’d hammered into her. He let his cock slide out of her, then placed her back in his lap, and when he ran his gloved hand along her cheek, she could have melted. “And does my good girl know her place now?” 

“Yessss,” she breathed out, eyes half-lidded, leaning against his hand, and then against the rest of him, skin pale as marble warmer than it looked, or maybe she was just that cold. 

“And where is that?” he asked, tracing bare fingers through her curls. 

She hunted for the perfect answer, wondering if she said something just right, he’d wrap his arms around her and let her be warm, finally, against the heat of his body. “B-beneath you; your, um--” It was still hard to say, in any context, a word laced with particular meaning for her, but wasn’t that part of why she liked it? “Your bitch,” she rushed out all at once. 

He _chuckled_ , and she _melted_. She was close enough that she could feel it vibrate in his chest. 

“I also would have accepted 'at my feet' or 'full of my cum', but yes.” And his words sparked fire through her veins, warming her up from the inside. 

“Those are good too,” she agreed breathlessly, luxuriating in the mental images even though she was living one right now, come dripping out of her ass onto his rug, a collar around her neck, matching cuffs, marked like something he wanted to _keep._

“They are! And that is why you feel so good now.” She nodded idly, not really thinking about it. She was too busy curling against his chest, listening, now, to the beat of his heart. Thump* Thump* Thump* Thump* She thought maybe her own was matching the sound. “Would you like me to read you something? Ah… perhaps after another bath? A warm one, this time.” 

Her heart seemed to be trying to beat twice at the same time, filling her with a wonderful sort of pain. His voice was wonderful and she adored when he read to her, which he knew. He rarely did it for her while she was still human, preferred saving it for when she was tiny and furry and curled up in his lap. 

“Yes!” she exclaimed, then tried to modulate her voice to something more reasonable, blushing. “Yes. Um, and, um…” 

“Yes?” he prompted, tilting her chin up so that she’d look at him. The metal where the leash connected to her collar jingled. 

“C-can I have a kiss?” she blurted out all at once, and he grinned, beautiful and terrible and deadly. 

“Of course, dear,” he murmured as he leaned down, lips meeting hers, and every time he kissed her she remembered the very first time, remembered all the very first times he’d won from her. How she’d known, the very first time his lips touched hers, that she was _fucked_ , that even if she spent another four years running, she would never get past the roses at his door. 

He spoiled her wretchedly, a hot bath in his giant tub, _with him_ , gentle hands massaging the special mixture he used on his own hair into hers, soothing tangles, soaking it gently to undo the damage from the cold water and all the pulling. Asking her about her life, that sparked sweet, painful confusion in her chest. But she told him, first shyly--it was amazing she could be shy, normally she spat things out like oaths--and then a bit more enthusiastically, about school and work. It was so nice to pretend he cared, and kind of him to give the illusion when he’d already gotten what he needed from her. 

Afterwards, there was still time before sunset, so he dried her thoroughly and gently and then put the collar and cuffs back on her. He lead her to his dresser and amused himself by making her sit on the ground by his feet and tying ribbons around her furry little ears. 

“This is embarrassing,” she grumbled, making absolutely no attempt to move, leaning between his legs. It felt good to complain, because it was who she was as a person, and it meant her head was drifting a bit out of the clouds she got lost in, sometimes, with Jean. 

“Was that a complaint?” he asked, and even though there was no discernable motive in his voice, no clear intent, she felt it like ice down her back. 

“N-n-no!” she stammered quickly. “It was, um, an objective state of observation.” 

“You are my pretty girl, are you not? To do with as I please?” And her cheeks flushed with embarrassed pleasure. 

“Yes, absolutely,” she promised. 

When he had satisfied himself with her ears, he lead her over to the bed. She went to crawl onto it automatically, looking forward to warmth and silks, but he yanked gently on her collar, pulling her away. 

“No, no. Someone still has yet to earn back her bed privileges,” he reminded her, and she swallowed, hard. She’d thought he’d forgotten that. “Although…” He seemed to consider her, tapping his chin theatrically. “...Perhaps just the foot,” he reasoned. “Like a well-behaved dog.” 

He tapped on the edge of the bed, and she crawled up, glad despite the fact she had never once _needed_ to be on a bed. He surprised her, a bit, by tying her cuffs to one of the bedposts near the bottom, to “make sure she behaved.” He made her a nice little nest down there, though, pillows and blankets, and she didn’t care at all that she was tied to a bedpost. Arguably, that made it a little bit better. She curled up, not caring a whit that she was still naked--no wearing clothes in his house until he said so, after all--and listened intently as he read to her from a book about the Balfour Declaration. 

She drifted around sleep, despite the fact she could scarcely remember the last time she slept while she was human. 

“Jean?” she asked sleepily, after he’d stopped reading and set the book aside, likely believing her asleep. 

“Yes?” 

“Do I taste good?” 

“Wonderful, dear,” he replied, and she let herself fall those last few inches to sleep, a blissful smile on her face.

**Author's Note:**

> If? You guys like this? I can start uploading more original work over here. If that's the sort of thing you'd like to see, or if you'd like to see more of these rascals in general, P L E A S E let me know. I'm not really expecting this to get more than a tiny handful of kudos and comments, so every little bit will mean the world to me and determine whether or not I post more of this stuff to Ao3.


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